


Blue Milkshake

by llyn



Series: Blue Milkshake [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Pink Haired Hux
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2016-04-23
Packaged: 2018-06-04 00:02:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6632449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/llyn/pseuds/llyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The AU that’s not afraid to ask: what if Hux was a pink-haired First Order defector working in a resort town cantina?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blue Milkshake

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Français available: [Blue Milkshake](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8060203) by [llyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/llyn/pseuds/llyn), [Rose_Hybride_de_The](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rose_Hybride_de_The/pseuds/Rose_Hybride_de_The)



> This one's for [space-emos](http://space-emos.tumblr.com), who drew [this](http://space-emos.tumblr.com/post/143217708591/nightsofllyn-i-realized-i-actually-have-no-idea) and [this](http://space-emos.tumblr.com/post/143170380091/when-u-think-the-cute-bartender-is-flirting-w-u) and [this](http://space-emos.tumblr.com/post/143109209266/nightsofllyn-i-mean-it-i-will-never-give-up-on) and kept me smiling through a rough week. Thank you <3 <3 <3

Snoke said Kylo would find him easily on the outpost on Lalandrian 5, but doesn’t mention that Lalandrian 5 is too hot for robes and too humid for a mask and crawling with foul drunken tourists whose thoughts are so base that Kylo abandons his search and seeks refuge from the crowd in the shadowiest corner of the shadowiest cantina he can find.

Inside, the rattling overhead fans push halfheartedly at the thick air, while the neon glow from the buzzing wall of frozen drinks behind the bar paints the dirt floor in a soft patchwork of purple-green-red-orange-yellow-and-blue. It’s only after he’s spent an idle hour slouched at a back table watching the bartender toss his silky pink hair and shrug a slim, freckled shoulder coyly at his customers’ clumsy advances that Kylo realizes two disturbing facts. 

One: somehow a dumb and dreamy smile has crept onto his face (he scowls, solving that problem immediately), and two: his instincts alone must have led him to this place because the man behind the bar is the one he seeks. Hux. A First Order Academy dropout. The pacifist son of an infamous commandant. A defector considered unarmed but dangerous whom Snoke believes will play a critical role in the future destruction of the New Republic. 

"Extract him," Snoke had said, "gently." 

Kylo had kept his head down, unsure why the supreme leader would believe he could do _anything_ gently, let alone kidnapping a notoriously crafty ex-solider. But Supreme Leader is wise, Kylo thinks—watching the way Hux's thin shirt rides up as he reaches to the highest row of drinks to turn the nozzle on Marsh-root Mash, pressing his heat-reddened cheek to the frosty, rumbling machine for a shivery breath as the slush fills the big, neon cup in his hand—Kylo was wrong to ever doubt him.

The bar is so sticky with spilt syrup that his gloved hand gets caught in it when he walks up and takes a seat, and he pulls free with difficulty, his palm trailing purple strings of goop. Kylo inspects the damage to the leather, frowning so hard he doesn’t notice Hux approach. 

"Careful, your face will get stuck that way," Hux says, watching him with a grin that says, _you must be an idiot_. Kylo, mission momentarily forgotten, sneers at him, which only makes Hux smile wider, “What? You can’t lurk here all day then get mad when you get some on you,” he gestures to his own shirt, which is brightly smeared with syrup here and there, but also distractingly wet and translucent, “So,” Hux says, when Kylo remains silent, “did you have a flavor in mind, or did you want to sample them first?” But Kylo’s too busy picturing how it would taste to push Hux against the ice-cold machines and lick the red smear beneath his left nipple to answer. “Hey,” Hux snaps his fingers by his face to get Kylo’s attention, “Look, I’m obviously moving too fast for you. I mean, it took you a whole hour to decide to sit at the bar, so you must be overwhelmed by the change of venue. Let me help,” Hux says, and points to the wall behind him, speaking very slowly, “Do you want a drink?” 

“Uh,” Kylo says, face burning, hand left hanging in the air, slowly dripping syrup, as he scans the wall of spinning frozen flavors behind Hux, “Blue Milkshake,” he says, proud of himself for finally getting a few words out. It’s true he’s not accustomed to humid heat or drunken crowds, but Hux is overwhelming his senses in an entirely different way.   

“Identification?” Hux asks.

“You don’t need my identification,” Kylo says. 

“Yes,” Hux says, “I do,” then shrugs, “Sorry, but we’re quite strict.”

“You don’t need my identification,” Kylo says.

Hux blinks at him. His eyes are wide and as green as the Tuffamelon Slime Slush spinning behind him. Then his nose crinkles, “Oh. Do you think you’re a Jedi? That’s embarrassing.” 

“I’m not—” Kylo starts, too loud, then stops short before he gets himself in trouble, even if he wants, irrationally, to take out his saber and slam it on the bar between them as proof.

"And a temper, too,” Hux says, "Lovely," but his eyes drift from Kylo’s face to his chest, then his arms. In the heat, Kylo’s stripped down to his black undershirt and tied his hair up. Hux doesn’t realize he’s staring, bottom lip caught in his teeth. This cheers Kylo up, a little. He’s about to say something smug about it, about gain the upper hand for once, when— 

“Hey, how ‘bout some service?” 

The rough voice comes from the other end of the bar, where the bright sunlight streaming in from the open doors casts the customers in silhouette. Hux jumps guiltily, pushing away a lock of hair that’s fallen forward to cover his eye, “You have until I get back to come up with identification,” he says, “Otherwise—” Hux’s gaze slips again, as if he can’t help himself, before his eyes snap back to Kylo’s, “Otherwise I’ll have to bounce you,” he says, and winks. 

Kylo tries to remind himself that Hux works for tips, but when he peaks inside his mind Hux is thinking _Dumb as a rock but fit_ , sneaking a glace down the bar at Kylo where he’s fussing over his filthy glove again, _Big hands_. 

The newcomer wants a Bloodfly Blast, and so do all five of his friends. One of them wants to twist Hux’s skinny arm behind his back and grind him against the bar, but Kylo can’t tell—squinting into the brightness with his clean hand on his saber—exactly which one it is. Hux’s only concern is how vile he finds Bloodfly Blast, which always attracts stinging bumbleflies and smells like mochanuts and death. He takes a deep breath and holds it before he pulls the lever and sets about pouring the drinks from the machine. 

The group is loud, the machine rumbling, the smell outrageous, so Kylo sneaks deeper into Hux’s mind while he’s distracted. His life on Lalandrian 5 plays under Kylo’s light touch like a flickering holofilm: the ancient, abandoned manor where he stays, sleeping in a hammock in the overgrown courtyard, bathing in the creek nearby, saving his credits, hoarding his portions, looking over his shoulder on the long walks home.

Before the hammock on Lalandrian 5, there was a brothel on Trilliaux where the girls cooed over his hair and the madam kept him busy with odd jobs, and before that a cargo hold on a freighter for what seemed like a standard month, but was only three cycles of sleep deprivation and thirst, before that a bunk in the spice mines of Kessel where he’d thought for sure he would die, and a flat on Rankin where he’d thought for sure he was in love, before the First Order came for him in the night, tipped off by the man he’d thought he was in love with.

And before any of it, the memories blurry and deformed, lurks dark and stormy Arkanis, the Order, Hux’s father, something to do with a cat. It’s locked down so completely, buried so effectively in his conscious that Kylo can’t dig at it without hurting Hux, who is right now thinking innocently of the view of the stars from his hammock through the wide, blue leaves of the tuffa trees. How the moody stranger at the end of the bar wears the empty expanse of space like a fine and heavy cloak draped over his shoulders. He wonders if he could taste it if they kissed—sweeter to Hux than any bright drink—thick, black space: stars like sprinkles, cherry nebulae. Kylo pulls away from his mind quickly, before he accidentally answers him, _Let’s find out._

Hux, done at last with the Bloodfly Blasts, paid and tipped and only briefly leered at, watches the party depart, drinks in hand, letting the door swing shut behind them. He drifts back down to the end of the bar where the sunlight doesn’t reach. They’re alone now, but Kylo’s nervous, shaking his glove as if to shake off the goop, but wishing he could shake off the mission itself. He wouldn’t mind sharing Hux’s hammock for the night, or a morning swim in the cool, clear creek before he reveals himself as another thug come to ruin Hux’s peace.

Hux says, “For kriff’s sake, hold _still_ ,” and catches Kylo’s hand between his own, carefully peeling off the glove so as to not stick the leather to itself.

Kylo watches him, eyes skipping between flushed cheeks, parted lips, thin wrists, and freckles. He thinks of space, too, of reuniting Hux with the galaxy, of the view from the long, tall viewport in his bedroom, of Hux warm in his arms, leaning back, looking out, a million stars shining in his eyes as Kylo buries his nose in his hair. It’s as clear as his visions. It is a vision. It’s a—

“Hey,” a hand on his arm makes him jerk back to reality, to Hux’s green eyes, but everything still feels somehow _wrong_ , “You alright? You’re all pale. Paler. You know what I mean. Here,” Hux hands Kylo his glove and grabs an oversized neon cup from a stack, “Blue Milkshake, yeah?”

“Yes,” Kylo says, rubbing his eyes to clear his head. 

“The heat must’ve got you,” Hux says, glancing over his shoulder as the machine rumbles to life under his touch, “Are you staying long?” he asks, turning his back, shy at his own question.

“Not much longer,” Kylo says, and locks the door from where he sits, the rumbling machine hiding the sound of the latch, “Supreme Leader Snoke sent me here. For you,” he says, “Hux.”

Hux bristles, then relaxes just as quickly, “That’s a shame,” he says, back still turned, “I kind of thought we could have fun together.”

“We’ll have fun,” Kylo says, eyes roaming from Hux’s pink hair where it sticks to the nape of his neck down his back, to his waist, to his little ass, thinking of the fun they’ll have, “Come back to my shuttle, we’ll have fun right now,” he says.

“I don’t know,” Hux turns from the wall, sliding a Blue Milkshake across the bar and leaning over it himself, “It is big?” 

“My…shuttle?” Kylo asks, blinking.

Hux smiles and ducks his head, “You’re so dumb.” 

Kylo takes a drink to hide the fact that he’s blushing. He likes how Hux teases him. He’s never liked being teased by anyone, before. Then the taste of the Blue Milkshake hits his tongue, and he tries not to gag, “It is big,” he says, to hide it, and Hux smirks, “Not my shuttle, but the ship where I live,” Kylo talks fast, on instinct, thinking of his vision, “It’s a Resurgent-Class Star Destroyer called the _Finalizer_. It’s the largest of its—”

“I know what the _Finalizer_ is,” Hux’s smile fades, “it’s a weapon,” he says, “I don’t care for weapons,” but there’s something boiling behind this—pure red rage, a burning sense of possession and jealousy that someone else has taken credit for his idea, a memory of drawing up the schematics in the last happy days of his old life, the comfortable order of calculus and geometry—and for a moment it’s not Hux’s face looking back at Kylo with a pink curl tickling his cheek but someone far hungrier.

“It’s yours,” Kylo says, “If you come with me,” Then, so Hux doesn’t get any ideas, he says, “It’s ours,” but it sounds softer than he intended. 

“And who commands it now? You would betray him so easily?”

“General Unamo, and she doesn’t,” Kylo looks away, “She doesn’t tease me.”

Hux tsks, “Even though you deserve it so badly?”

Kylo hides his face in the big neon cup, though the Blue Milkshake tastes just as foul as before.

“Well that would be the first thing I’d change,” Hux says, and holds out his hand. Kylo takes it. They don’t shake. They just hold onto each other for a moment, “What’s your name?” Hux asks, pulling gently away.

“Kylo.”

“Kylo,” Hux says, and hums, leaning close across the bar, looking into Kylo’s eyes as if searching for something in particular—a secret written in the width of a pupil or spelled out in flecks of gold around the ring of his iris. Whatever it is, Hux finds it, and smiles, “It was nice to meet you.” 

“You’re so beautiful,” Kylo says, feeling a bit soft and drowsy and yet, at the same time, that he must tell Hux this _right now_ or never again. Is this drinking? Is he drunk? How does anyone have more than one? He looks toward the door, forgetting for a moment that they’re alone, then back, the colors behind Hux swirling, walls bending in. He tries instead to focus on Hux, who’s still smiling softly at him, as if he understands, “I want to pull your hair,” Kylo says, “Before they make you cut it.”

Hux laughs, “I’d love that. But I think I’ll keep it like this for a while longer. There’s no rush,” he says, “for us.”

The colors of the cantina begin to dim, purple-green-red-orange-yellow-and-blue to grey, “What—“ Kylo asks, grabbing onto the sticky bar with his bare hand when he starts to slip sideways from his stool.

“I won’t be used by the First Order to cause pain,” Hux says, with sadness in his green eyes.

Kylo realizes then, far too late, that he’s been drugged. _Betrayed_ , he thinks viciously, though he knows it’s not true. They’ve yet to stand together on the same side of the bar, let alone the war. Still, he strikes out with the Force, to wrap it whiplike around Hux’s neck and _pull_ , but hits his drink instead, spilling it on top of himself as he falls to the dirt floor.

* * *

He wakes up behind an overflowing dumpster leaking florescent syrup in a slow, steady drip. The sickly sweet smell threatens to turn his stomach. His head is pounding, lips cracked, mouth dry. He sits up with a groan, his leg asleep from the awkward way he slept on top of his saber. Yes, his saber is safe but his gloves are gone, and he’s splattered head to toe in dried Blue Milkshake. He can taste it when he licks his lips: failure. In his pocket, where his credits should be, he finds a lock of pink hair tied up in syrup-stained cloth that—though soft and bright—brings Kylo no comfort at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [tumblr](http://nightsofllyn.tumblr.com)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Balloon For Hux's Hair](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6946882) by [Jathis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jathis/pseuds/Jathis)
  * [Trying To Be Cool](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6964720) by [RestlessWanderings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RestlessWanderings/pseuds/RestlessWanderings)




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